


Wilt

by chekovthechosen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bad Poetry, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M, One Shot, Other, Poetry, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:06:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chekovthechosen/pseuds/chekovthechosen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you liked it, please leave kudos/comments! I'm beginning to think that nobody likes my writing at all.</p></blockquote>





	Wilt

Oh how this feeling stung his eyes

It cast a dark shadow across his vision

Though he could still see with clarity

His perspective was marred eternally

The thorns digging into his sides as he trudged on

Weary and woeful as he ever was

Without a thought flitting across the horizon of his mind

 

Oh how he pulled the cloth around him tighter,

The golden fabric draped across his frame

He clung to it,

 Too busy trying to keep himself concealed

To attempt doing much else

 

_So the wind may howl_

The words slipped past his lips

The rose petals pink with summer

And a smile just as bright

The curve of his bottom lip a graceful bend

_So the wind may howl_

 

A forest of antlers

Plagued by moss and creeping vines

Lush and green

The bone of the magnificent horns

Shades of cream like the sweet things the man liked

To take away the bitter taste of loss

 

That jungle of pride lost to its owner

Would be a perpetual affliction

It would snag his sunshine material

Smear it with blood

Stain his face with tears

Let them slide to his mouth,

A pout tinged a tender red

Like cherries just ripened

A thin line of blood welling up

On the preciously soft flesh

 

His cheeks mottled porcelain break

Under the weight of all his loves that are not there

His slender frame

Lithe and elegant like a blade

He must stumble forth

Straining under his identity

His pleasure in the textile,

Shining gilt under the faint light,

Is gone.

 

His only wish is to discard it and spend his days

Carried high above the clouds on the arch of spiralling tusks

The sharp ends cutting him to the marrow

Like deep grooves on a knife

From all its battles

 

But instead he marches on

Mistaking his resignation

For acquiescence is a deadly error

He will have you dead in within the minute

No

Do not mistake the blood running down his neck

For weakness

His edge has grown harsher and finer still

A sword forgotten in the wood of the dead and absent

A halo grown dim within an everlasting purgatory

He will burn your flesh

Watch it blister and bubble

For warmth to grow by

He has matured into cruelty

And he has been cultivated

To ignore the bite of his heart

He has wilted to the point of giving up

Time and time again

He could never reach the fantasy

Where his love held him to the sky

And let him taste it

So while he has struggled to grow _up,_

he has grown _strong_

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please leave kudos/comments! I'm beginning to think that nobody likes my writing at all.


End file.
